


Ink's Damnation

by VioletLopez



Series: soulmarks [1]
Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Homophobic Society, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, There's A Tag For That, Tree Houses, i dont need its bullshit, i guess?????, i just have Big Feelings, i would die for georg/otto y'all don't even know, its the one with the names on you, mild homophobia, or its crushing expectations of the new generation, or its forced heterosexuality, or its gender roles, or its standardized tests, scissors, they appear on your eighteenth birthday, this isnt about the story by the way, treee, well fuck society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletLopez/pseuds/VioletLopez
Summary: "It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really."~Love is hard when it's not who it should be.But is there a 'should be'? Is love ever wrong?





	Ink's Damnation

**Author's Note:**

> i have so many regrets

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. Melchior supposed that he’d always known, deep down, but never in a million years would he have admitted to himself who it might be, that it might be _him._

 

It wasn’t that Melchior was surprised that his soulmate had turned out to be male. The opposite, in fact - he’d known they would be since he caught himself checking out Hanschen Rilow’s ass their tenth grade year. It had been a somewhat crushing realization. Not because of his soulmate’s gender, but because he would never be permitted to be with the person he was meant to be with. Flimsy, illogical human ruling obstructed any chances of romance between Melchior and his soulmate. He couldn’t be with the boy he was destined to fall in love with. It was simple fact.

 

But this - this was worse than he’d imagined. He let out a shuddering breath, eyes fixed on the mirror, fixed on the letters written in a hand more familiar than his own. He lifted a finger and traced them, the sharp points of the M, the halting strokes of the O, the r that always ended up looking more like a v. Melchior had always made fun of him for that. It didn’t seem so amusing now that it was imprinted on his skin.

 

The name rested on Melchior’s ribs, and it was smeared just slightly, almost like it was dripping down his side, like tears mourning what he could never have. He mouthed it silently to himself, marveling at how familiar it tasted, but so foreign under these new circumstances. He let out a sigh, breathed out the name, and pulled his shirt back on. He quirked his lips up into his usual smirk, the one that was easy to plaster on no matter what he was feeling, and left the bathroom. It was his birthday, after all. He ought to enjoy it.

 

He sat down on the couch, where Moritz was alone, his long legs curled up beneath him. “What was it?” He asked when Melchior sat. He looked excited, like Melchior getting his soulmate was the most wonderful thing on the planet.

 

Melchior felt sick.

 

He forced himself to shrug nonchalantly. “Hasn’t come in yet. I’ll get it later tonight, I suppose.”

 

“Maybe you won’t get one at all,” Hanschen remarked breezily, dropping down in a chair across from them and propping his feet up on the coffee table. Moritz frowned.

 

“That can happen?”

 

“Well, sure,” Hanschen said, shrugging. “If someone’s undesirable enough; if they’re irreparably ugly, or simply horrible to talk to, and no one could possibly fall in love with them. Or if they’re queer. Queers don’t have soulmates.”

 

Melchior rolled his eyes. “That’s just a myth, Moritz,” he told his friend. “ ‘Sides, you don’t really believe queers don’t have queer soulmates, do you Hanschen?”

 

Hanschen scowled. “Yeah, I do actually,” he snapped, like Melchior hadn’t seen the curly script on his wrist, or caught him behind the school with Ernst last Friday. “They’re unnatural, just useless burdens to society.”

 

Melchior just rolled his eyes. “You’re a useless burden to society,” he muttered, and Hanschen pretended not to hear. Next to him, Moritz shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his hands. Almost unconsciously, Melchior reached over and gripped one of those hands in his own. Hanschen smirked knowingly at them, and Melchior pretended not to notice the thrills of contentment rushing up and down his spine.

 

~~

 

Perhaps, Melchior thought, being queer wasn’t so queer after all.

 

It had been an odd request, to cut someone’s hair, but he had met Herr and Frau Zirschnitz before, and understood quite well why Georg wouldn’t want them holding scissors near his neck. And since Melchior had a fairly steady hand, and was over anyway, helping him study, and the scissors were there on the bedside table, it seemed only reasonable.

 

But then as Melchior snipped away, and Georg sat there chattering about god knows what, the scissors suddenly froze. An audible gasp escaped Melchior’s mouth.

 

Georg cut off in the middle of a sentence, and for a long moment the room was silent.

 

“Georg...”

 

Georg jerked around, real fear flooding his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone,” he begged. “Please, please, don’t say anything. He can’t know, he really, really can’t.”

 

Melchior nodded and swore on his life that he wouldn’t and they finished the haircut and the studying in silence.

 

Melchior didn’t go over to the Zirschnitz’s house again.

 

~~

 

They were nearing the end of November now, and the weather was growing colder. Moritz’s birthday was in just two weeks, the seventh of December.

 

“It’s no big deal,” he kept telling them. “It’s not like that’s the day I’ll meet my soulmate. The mark isn’t worth anything without a person to go along with it.”

 

Melchior felt sick again, like he did anytime Moritz mentioned his soulmate, because time was ticking away on his charade. Two weeks from now, Moritz would get his tattoo, and he would know Melchior had been lying to him for months.

 

How could he ever forgive him, much less love him, after he found out what a fraud he was?

 

Melchior tightened his grip on his girlfriend’s shoulders, and she shot him a sympathetic glance. She knew how he felt - she knew because she felt that way too, because of the _Wendla_ inked in a graceful arch over the top of her left breast, because of the _Thea_ that curved around the back of her right ankle. Because every night she had to painstakingly trace over the pen on her wrist, the _Melchior_ that didn’t belong there. For Melchior, he had asked her to write his _Ilse_ along the curve of his foot, as far from the damning _Moritz_ as he could get. It was trying, pretending to love her because of society’s petty norms, but it seemed the only option at the time, and they couldn’t very well back out of it now.

 

“What do you think she’ll be like, Moritz?” Otto asked, tilting his head. “I can’t wait ‘till I meet mine.” Melchior caught the slight smirk that rose to Georg’s lips, and exasperation flooded his veins, because _so much for him never being able to know_. And of _course_ those two were meeting in secret. He’d thought Hanschen and Ernst the only ones stupid enough.

 

Moritz shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answers after a pause. “I don’t know what kind of person could love me.”

 

 _I don’t know what kind of person wouldn’t_ , Melchior thought, but outwardly he just patted Moritz’s shoulder. “She’ll be wonderful, Moritz,” he reassured. “And she’ll love you more than anything in the world.”

His friend shoots him a sort of surprised half-smile, and Melchior has to excuse himself because he can’t deal with Moritz’s beauty sometimes. 

~~ 

Moritz didn’t know what to feel. 

He’d awoken excited - nervous, yes, and scared, because he’d already had his hopes crushed once, when Melchior had revealed the name curling over the top of his foot, but excited because finally, finally he would have someone to love, finally someone who would love him. He wouldn’t have to satisfy himself with thoughts of his best friend that left him feeling dirty and ashamed, ones that made it hard to just look in Melchior’s eyes the next morning. 

But of course the world had decided to fuck with him. Of course he would be left standing here, entirely nude and scanning the mirror for traces of ink. 

He recalls Hanschen’s words back in July, during Melchior’s birthday, and his heart sinks because of course it would be him. Of course he wouldn’t get a soulmark - how had he ever expected one? It seemed painfully obvious the longer he stood in front of the mirror, and he swallowed hard, looking away. 

It was alright, he supposed. After all, if he couldn’t have Melchior, he didn’t want anyone. 

He got to school early, but of course Melchior was already there. He’d been waiting for Moritz, it seemed, without Ilse by his side for the first time in months. 

Moritz shouldn’t feel so bitter about that - they were soulmates, after all, because Melchior didn’t - couldn’t love him, because he couldn’t be loved. That’d been made clear enough this morning. He ducked his head, trying to sneak into school without being spotted, but Melchior saw him as he approached the doors 

“Moritz!” Melchior called after him, and Moritz turned to see him running across the gravel. He came to a stop, not even breathing hard, a slight frown resting on his lips. “Are you trying to sneak past me?" 

“I didn’t see you,” Moritz said, but he glanced to his shoes as he did and they both know it’s a lie. Still, Melchior didn’t force him, just a laugh, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s your birthday!” He exclaimed, but there was something in his tone, like he wasn’t as happy as he tried to be. Moritz nodded, but his lack of enthusiasm was clear. “Is there something wrong?” 

"I didn’t get a soulmark,” Moritz confesses softly, and Melchior froze. 

“What?” And why does he sound so surprised, borderline betrayed? He had to know this was coming. He’s been putting up with Moritz for years, he’s got to know that no one else could. Not even he wants to, Moritz knows, would rather be spending time with the shyly contemplative Ernst or the infuriatingly intelligent Hanschen or beautiful Ilse, the girl he loved, the girl he was meant for, and suddenly Moritz felt sick and alone and so, so tired, so he pushed Melchior’s hand off his shoulder and snapped at him. “I don’t want your pity. Go kiss Ilse or something, I don’t care. Just get away from me!” And then he stormed away. 

Melchior didn’t follow, and the cold December air felt like it was suffocating him. 

~~ 

It was December seventh, Moritz’s eighteenth birthday, and Melchior hadn’t slept at all the night before. He’d left the house before the sun woke from its slumber, sitting under the big oak tree and letting himself marinate in his thoughts. 

Finally he’d spotted Moritz, approaching with his head dangling and one of his shoes untied. He was wearing his old winter jacket, the one Melchior had given him in tenth grade, the one with a hole in it that didn’t really keep the cold out that well. 

Moritz was a mess, even more so than usual. And then he tried to ignore Melchior, and yes, ok, something was wrong. 

But he hadn’t expected to hear Moritz hadn’t gotten a soulmark. He hardly heard the words he shouted, unable to do much more than stare because that didn’t make sense. Why, when Moritz was so wonderful, so lovely, did he not have a soulmate? Why, when he was the most deserving of them all, did he not get to share their happiness? And why, in God’s name, if his name was inked on Melchior’s skin, why wasn’t Melchior’s name on his? 

Melchior turned and left then, because he knew that he couldn’t have Moritz, but it hurt to see it proven again and again. 

~~ 

"Where’s Melchi?” Ilse asked him in the library that afternoon, after school had ended. Moritz’s fingers tightened into a fist. 

“I don’t know,” he spat, “and I don’t fucking care. Leave me alone.” 

Ilse frowned, perching on the table. “What’s wrong?” Moritz ignored her, continuing to read. “Moritz.” Her tone left no room for argument. 

“I don’t have a soulmark,” he muttered. Ilse’s reaction was instantaneous. She jumped off the table, grabbing his shoulders, and forced him to look at her. 

"What the fuck do you mean?” She looked horrified, almost panicked. Moritz blinked, his face hardening before he pushed her away. 

"I mean what I said.” Ilse stared at him. 

“Moritz, let’s go to your house,” she suggested, but it wasn’t really a suggestion, so Moritz nodded and followed. 

The moment the door was closed, Ilse turned around and stared him in the eyes. “Is anyone home?” He shook his head. She nodded. “Ok, good. Take your shirt off.” 

That was so wildly unexpected that Moritz just stood there, unable to say anything for a few moments. 

“Not like that!” Ilse nearly shrieked when it hit her what she’d said. “No, I don’t - no. Melchior would kill me.” 

Moritz frowned. “He wouldn’t kill you for cheating on him - not that I want you to, I don’t, please don’t - but he wouldn’t kill you, you’re his soulmate.” 

“No, I’m not,” she said airily. “Now take off your shirt." 

And Moritz really isn’t sure what the fuck that means, so he just nods in absent confusion and takes off his shirt. Ilse steps closer to him, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. He stiffened under the touch, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Oh, get over it, Stiefel. I’m not trying to have sex with you.” 

"I’m not wor-” 

"Just do what I say,” Ilse snapped, and he shut his mouth. “Good. Turn around.” 

He did, and Ilse trailed a hand down his back. “Huh.” 

Suddenly it hits him. “Are you - Ilse, I don’t have a soulmark.” 

"Shut up,” she murmurs, tracing her finger down his arm. 

“But this is useless, I don’t-” 

“I found it,” Ilse announces, cutting him off, and he is shocked to silence. “No wonder you didn’t see it.” She taps the spot, a patch of skin just above his elbow. “I don’t imagine you would have looked here.” 

“Who is it?” 

"Who do you think?” 

She didn’t seem inclined to tell him, so Moritz twisted his arm up to look at the name. He didn’t even read it, just saw the script and the abnormally fancy M and dropped his arm, feeling like he might faint. “Oh my god.” 

_Melchior_ is his soulmate. The boy he’s in love with is the boy who he’s supposed to love, the boy he’s supposed to spend his life with, the boy he really can’t live without, the boy who is supposed to love him- 

And then Moritz’s high came crashing down, because Melchi didn’t love him, he loved Ilse. Ilse, the one he’s meant to be with, the girl who’s name curled across his foot. 

“He doesn’t love me,” he muttered, turning back around. “He loves you, you’re his soulmate.” 

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Ilse asked, exasperation falling through her tone. “I’m not. You are.” 

“But then why-” Moritz is lost, and Ilse sighs. She spit on her finger - Moritz cringed, just a little - and rubbed at the name on her wrist, the abnormally fancy M like the one on Moritz’s arm. And to his utmost confusion, the name began rubbing away, until all that was left of Melchior’s claim to her was a faint shadow. 

“It’s faked,” she explained, rather unnecessarily, and then pulled down her sock, exposing Thea’s name. Moritz gaped. “I’ve another one here,” she said, tapping the top of her left breast, “but it would be indecent to show you, I think.” 

“I-” Moritz was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. 

“Come in!” Ilse called, rolling up her sock. “It’s unlocked!” 

The door opened. “Ilse? What are you-” and Moritz froze, and Melchior’s eyes raked over the two of them, Ilse looking annoyed and Moritz without his shirt, and it was horribly silent for a single second before Melchior slammed the door shut and they could hear his footsteps running away. 

"Oh dear,” Ilse said, and Moritz felt a stab of anger before he ripped open the door and followed Melchior. 

~~ 

“Melchi!” He heard the yell, but he didn’t move from his spot, curled up in the corner of the old treehouse. “Melchi, seriously, I’m fucking freezing!” 

“Well that’s your own fault!” he yelled back. Then he realized he’d given away his position, and almost slapped himself, but then Moritz’s head popped through, followed by the rest of him. Melchior swallowed and looked away, because what do you know, Moritz hadn’t put his shirt back on. 

"What do you want?” he snapped, when they had sat there in silence for a long moment. Moritz sighed, dropping down next to him. 

"I’m sorry,” he apologized, reaching over to twine his fingers with Melchior’s. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning.” Melchior stopped breathing for a moment, because Moritz had leaned his head against his shoulder and they’re holding hands and Moritz hooked their ankles together and _does he know what this does to Melchior_ \- he reminded himself of his anger. 

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?” 

Moritz sighed, and the sound resonated with the wind rustling around them. “It wasn’t what it looked like.” 

Melchior scoffed. “It looked pretty self-explanatory to me.” He shouldn’t be enjoying this, the way Moritz is pressed into his side. 

“Melchi, please.” Moritz shifted closer, probably to keep himself warm, and yes, Melchior definitely shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. “Let me explain?” 

"What’s there to explain?” Melchior asked, suddenly weary from faked kisses and a staged relationship and unrequited love. “I get it. She’s not my soulmate, if she wants to be with you, so be it-” and then he froze, and this time he really did slap himself, smacking his hand into his cheek. Moritz reached out and grabbed that hand too, so that the two of them were closer than they’d ever been. 

“Is that really what you’re mad about?” Moritz whispered in his ear, and then his hand had been released, and Moritz’s hand crept up under the hem of his shirt. Melchior forgot how to breathe. 

“You-” he swallowed hard. “God, Moritz.” 

“I thought you were an atheist,” Moritz teased, and Melchior couldn’t find it in himself to be angry. He just leaned his head on top of Moritz’s and took the hand that was playing with the hem of his shirt, laying on it his knee. He pinched the hem of his shirt, then, and pulled it up so that the letters on his ribs were visible. 

“I’m not mad that you took Ilse.” He admitted, staring straight ahead so that he couldn’t see Moritz’s expression. “I’m mad that she took you.” 

“I didn’t take Ilse,” Moritz said ( _and doesn’t he get that i love him by now?_ ) “She was looking for my soulmark.” 

"But you said-” 

"I was wrong.” 

“Oh.” 

They sat there in silence for a few minutes before Melchior cleared his throat, glancing down at his hands. “Who, uh...was it me?” 

He heard Moritz chuckle softly against his shoulder. “God, I love you,” he whispered, and Melchior didn’t think he was supposed to hear it, but he turned his head and pressed a kiss into Moritz’s hair. 

“I love you too,” he said, pulling the other boy closer. 

Moritz’s lips ghosted across his jaw, and Melchior’s breath caught in his throat because _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck Moritz’s lips are on my face they are_ on _my_ face _I don’t know how to deal with this_ and then his mind shut off altogether because Moritz’s lips pressed against his, and yes, Melchior understands now, why the risk of secret meetings was worth it to the other boys. He doesn't think he could live without having Moritz this close to him, even if it was during stolen pockets of time when no one would question their absence. He needed Moritz. 

Melchior disconnected their lips for a few cold seconds so that he could shift, moving onto Moritz’s lap. When he was situated, in a way that had him straddling the other boy’s waist and Moritz’s face flushing dark red, he pressed their lips back together, Moritz responding with more enthusiasm than finesse. He slid his tongue along the younger boy’s bottom lip, pressing until Moritz took the hint and opened his mouth, allowing Melchior to kiss him deeper, their tongues meeting in a strange dance of passion that Melchior easily dominated. 

Moritz is happier than he has ever been - he knows how Melchior tastes, and he knows how _love_ tastes, because those are one and the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> y'all.... why don't we have more georg/otto fics like honestly man


End file.
